Free The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter

on the mouth, which seemed to surprise him. If he really was her boyfriend then it was probably early days.
    Weynfeldt greeted Gabel, who treated him with the kind of respect she reserved for old money, and listened to her summary of events so far. He took no notice of Manon or Pedroni.
    The way the redhead put it, it all sounded very simple. She had tried on a few things, put some aside because she wanted to show him and one in her handbag for the same reason. By the time she came to leave the shop she had forgotten about the Prada in her handbag. Simple as that.
    Everyone present knew this wasn’t true. But with the arrival of Adrian Weynfeldt the story became one of those kind of lies you can accept without having to believe it.
    Without asking any further questions he pulled out his wallet and handed Gabel his credit card, avoiding eye contact with her.
    But the redhead insisted that he see the dress. She ordered him into one of the leather armchairs, disappeared into the dressing room and reappeared in the black Prada number—slightly crumpled from being rolled to fit in a handbag.
    Weynfeldt was pleased. But when the redhead then appeared in her own clothes he remained seated. “What about the other things?” he asked.
    She asked for the clothes that had been reserved and modeled them for him, one after the other, with her over-the-top catwalk choreography. Weynfeldt was pleased with them too.
    Without batting an eyelid, he paid the bill of nearly twelve thousand francs. Holding four large Spotlight bags he followed the redhead out of the store.
    Melanie Gabel, who had accompanied them both to the door, stayed there for ages, watching them walk away. At the register, Manon filled in the alteration form: the white blouse with the starched frills by Emanuel Ungaro had to be taken in at the waist.
    Pedroni glanced over her shoulder and memorized the delivery address.

9
    M EN WITH SIGNET RINGS THOUGHT THEY WERE SOMETHING special. They talked faster than other people and had a kind of well-bred arrogance that drove Lorena mad. Most of them wore family crests their fathers or, at best, grandfathers had paid a heraldry expert to research or invent. But they wore these insignia as if they were the descendants of some ancient dynasty with the time-honored right to have their wicked way with girls from the lower orders, with no honorable intentions whatsoever. Signet ring men were spoiled: generous when they were coming on to you, stingy once they wanted to get rid of you.
    Weynfeldt wore a signet ring. So Lorena knew what she was getting into.
    They walked side by side through the busy city center. Excitement over the false spring lay in the unnaturally warm air. They hadn’t discussed where they were heading. Lorena didn’t know if she was following him or he was following her. After they left Spotlight she had put her arm through his, while the boutique owner was watching, and as far the shopping bags allowed. But then he had started awkwardly swapping sides, walking on her right for a while, then back to the left, till it got silly trying to link arms with him again each time. Now they were simply walking along beside each other, like two acquaintances who had met by chance.
    Lorena had thanked him first of all, and he had brushed it off. Then she added, “You didn’t have to buy all the other clothes, the dress would have been enough.”
    â€œI’ll remember that next time.”
    â€œNo need; there won’t be a next time.” And because he said nothing to that, she asked, “What am I going to do with all these clothes?”
    â€œWear them. They look good on you.”
    She looked at him, from the side. He was older than the signet ring men she knew. But with the same rounded contours. He had clearly just lost the latest in a series of battles against weight gain.
    You could see his suit was expensive if you looked properly. But it wasn’t a suit that made this as